My son was born prematurely, at eight months, and as a precaution, his mother stayed in the hospital for an additional 10 days. I went to visit every evening after I got off work. That period, like all parentheses in my life, exists in my memory in a particular way.
Once when I went to visit, my son was placed in an incubator. It seemed like he’d been in it for a long time, and I became concerned. I said to his mother that I was afraid he was overheating. She said that I should trust the nurses, that they knew best. I opened the incubator door and felt his body. He was very warm. I went to get a nurse against the protestations of his mother who felt I was overreacting. I found the nurse, who, with sudden realization, cried out “Oh my, I forgot!” She ran back and took him out of the device and profusely apologizing, put him back in the arms of his mother.
One of the rituals I developed at that time was to walk from the hospital to a small wine bar about a mile away when visiting hours were over. I’d have a couple of glasses of red wine and then proceed to the metro and come home. The bar’s a nice place. It’s been around since the 1950s and has kept its original appearance.
One night I went in and heard some people speaking English. They were making a scene, obviously they wanted to be noticed. During the conversation, I heard one of them make a comment referring to the Fluxus Art Movement from the 1960s. I made a comment, subtly informing them that I, too, was aware of that artistic current. This acted, together with the wine, as an opener and soon we were all talking together. It turned out that one of them was a well-known experimental filmmaker.
We left that place and visited a series of bars. I recall being surprised at how the filmmaker, who was 82 at the time, could put it away. I guess we were being a bit self-importantly rambunctious because in one of the bars an attractive waitress asked who we were. I told her who the older man was and that he was a famous underground filmmaker. She then flatly said “No, he isn’t.” I assured her that he was, but she refused to believe me and walked away with skepticism. I couldn’t figure it out. She’d asked, I told her, and she refused to accept what she learned. I could only assume that she must meet a lot of bullshitters (it was about three a.m. by that time) or that she felt that so-called famous people existed only in places where she could never be.
I had an even more intense version of the same disbelief scenario. It took place in the same bar, but 20 years later. I’d returned for a nostalgic visit. I was at the bar having a glass of wine (now twice as expensive) when I heard a young woman order a drink speaking in English. I said hello and asked where she was from. She said Baltimore. Happily surprised, I told her that I was also from Baltimore, and grew up in Roland Park. She said she lived in Rodgers Forge, but her dad was from Roland Park. Thinking her dad would be around my age, I asked his name. John O’Hara, she said. I asked if he’d gone to Roland Park Elementary School. Yes. I told her that I knew him, that he’d been in my brother’s class, two years before me. She then said, through eyes filled with suspicion, “No you don’t.” I said that I did indeed know him and that her uncle was named Fred and that he’d been in my sister’s class, a year ahead of me. As further proof, I gave her the name of the teacher. She then said outright that she didn’t believe me. I asked her how I could have possibly guessed her uncle’s name and then described her dad, a smiling kid with black hair, freckles and a round face, and her uncle, who was more serious, tall, with sandy blond hair.
She told me that her uncle had led a troubled life and had passed away several years before. This rang a bell, and called up vague memories of her uncle and the Roland Park teenage drug culture of the late-1970s. Still, as she spoke, something in her eyes refused to believe me. I gave her my name, email address, and the name of my siblings and told her to ask her dad. She took them and went back to her table. Whether she ever asked him, I’ll never know.